When an Anti-Cheerleader Goes to Cheer Boot Camp

From a young age, it was drilled into me that there were two things I could do that would bring shame upon my family: vote Republican or become a cheerleader. Pep, in our household, was reserved for squealing at cute dogs on the street and debating at the dinner table, not jumping in the air for quarterbacks. In elementary school, I always "forgot" spirit free dress days (I mean, our colors were green and gold), and on a Friday night in high school, you'd be more likely to find me drinking in the parking lot than sitting in the bleachers. Uncharacteristically, I joined a sorority in college; characteristically, I spent rush in the basement doing organizational tasks—it was agreed upon that I would not be the best at selling Greek Week and charity mud-wrestling. I told myself my aversion to everything cheer and rah-rah-rah—short skirts, robotic smiles, the you-can't-sit-with-us mentality—was a healthy show of support for feminism. What I didn't really consider, until I tried CheerFit, was that it might also be a way of avoiding the fact that I couldn't make a squad if my life depended on it.

CheerFit is an hour-long workout designed by founder Danielle Wechsler, a tiny, tan former Syracuse cheerleader with rock hard abs and endless energy. She, along with a team of 15 instructors, teaches at several gyms around the city and will host a 5-day camp in Central Park starting on May 9. I heard about the class, figured it'd be prime snarking ground and enlisted my friend and fellow cynic Maria Del Russo to come along. "Be sure to get there early—the poms go fast," emailed Wechsler, and I'm embarrassed to admit I was the first one in line for the bin. I needed pom poms, no matter how wilted and sad-looking they ended up being. Maria arrived and casually informed me she wasn't planning on sweating because she had a date right after. "Um, I think you're definitely going to sweat," I said, before remembering that she's one of those annoying people whose Snapchat story shows them lifting weights at 6 AM. But as the room filled up and I looked around at the motley crew of women—let's just say there wasn't a tall blonde with a high ponytail and a major thigh gap in sight—I breathed a sigh of relief and thought, "Oh yeah, this'll be easy." Famous last words.

At 7:18, just under 20 minutes in and with 40 to go, I was red-faced, out of water and dripping sweat onto the mat. Maria was on the floor, inching backwards toward the door and hissing at me to sneak out with her. Had I not made such a production out of going, I would have, because this was squat-plank-burpee hell. I considered myself fairly in shape before this class—I spin regularly—but it turns out, I am not. Not at all. I made it to the end, but barely, and not without some cursing and a social media break. In the cab home, I ate Samoas out of my gym bag and accepted that Danielle's body is probably not in my future. Fast forward to today, five very sore days later, and the first morning since the class that I woke up with normal function in my legs, able to get out of bed without cringing. Do I have a begrudging new respect for cheerleaders? You bet. Do I want to work out with them? Never again.

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